Dinah Moss turns up at the stall late morning, just as I’m hanging up a sign offering Bespoke Tailoring and Alterations.

She sneaks up on me. ‘Hello, dahlink!’ she says in my ear, scaring me half to death and laughing cheerfully at the heart-stopping effect it has on me.

‘Dinah!’

She’s wearing a lilac-and-black Chanel suit with a silky lilac shirt and she reads my sign with the studied poise of a model on a photoshoot. ‘So! Bespoke tailoring and alterations! You and Moss are a partnership now.’

‘Yes.’

She gives a satisfied smile. ‘And whose idea was that?’

I laugh. ‘All yours, you’re a genius.’

Her dark hair is tucked into a black satin turban and she looks like the kind of woman who does charity lunches; well preserved and wealthy. She has the gold chain handles of her repaired Chanel 2.55 jersey quilted bag in the crook of her arm. ‘I’ve been looking at the other stallholders. All these people trying to make a living,’ she says, marvelling. ‘And you, too, and such a tiny stall to sell from.’

‘Small but cheap,’ I tell her.

‘Ach, cheap. Fern Banks Vintage,’ she says, reading my sign. ‘It’s always good sense to put your name to a business. You have a little chair for me to sit on?’

‘I have a stool. Here.’

I unfold it for her and she sits neatly then smooths her lilac-and-black skirt over her knees. ‘Tell me, what do you think about Moss? He’s a good tailor, don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, he’s amazing. My client’s thrilled she can have the dress fitted.’

On the stall next to us, David Westwood can hear us talking. ‘Absolutely thrilled,’ he calls dryly.

‘Ah, there you are, hiding in the dark! Good morning!’ Dinah sits forward and waggles her fingers at him coquettishly. ‘Handsome,’ she says out of the corner of her mouth, loudly enough for him to hear. Hentsom.

‘The woman Moss is altering the dress for is his partner,’ I say, to set her straight.

‘Ah. Generous, too,’ she replies flirtatiously.

I’m not sure whether Moss’s description of Dinah as peculiar was a slip of the tongue or not. She’s actually pretty normal. It’s him I’m not so sure about. I’ve met men like him before, the ones who accompany their wives or girlfriends on shopping trips, proud of imposing their taste and sense of style on others. I realise for the first time that the same could apply to Mick; I’m not judging.

It’s a sunny day and the light through the awning gives the stall a mellow glow. Above the alley I can see a strip of clear blue sky. It’s going to be a good day for shopping.